


Letters

by orphan_account



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-07
Updated: 2015-06-21
Packaged: 2018-03-29 09:50:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3891832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bilbo is constantly writing letters to Thorin explaining how their relationship fell apart and more specifically, why he left.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part I

**Author's Note:**

> Keep in mind this was originally and original piece with characters created by yours truly. Naturally, I will not be changing many of these characters to fit the fanfiction theme (Helga, Matta, Andre etc. etc.)

Dear Thorin, sweet, beautiful, Thorin,  
I’m almost 100% sure that when you receive these letters, they’ll go straight into the trash, and I wouldn’t blame you. Thorin, these letters are many things, an apology being one, an explanation being the other.  
Let’s start at the beginning.  
Where did this fine mess start? I believe it started in second grade. Oh, how I loved you then but, I was terrified. Back then, we were friends, but I swore that I would follow you to the very ends of the earth.  
Every summer I prayed you would be in my class but, fate is cruel. I guess we were just paused.  
In middle school I moved on, or tried to. You found yourself a girl, a pretty one with long dark hair and a bright smile. And even though I swore to myself that I was over you, you came back every winter like the flu. You came back with your soft smile and warm brown eyes, and I would make myself believe that you hadn’t forgotten.  
Every winter you got close. So close, I could feel the glow of your skin, the warmth of your breath. But every spring you melted away, making me wish, wish that I’d tried a little harder. I hate spring.  
You compared my eyes to precious metals, I’d compare yours to hot chocolate... just what every winter needs. I could go on, comparing you and lamenting the spring, but I have a story to tell.  
Middle school was gone, and high school was only a year from ending. I still loved science and I still wore hair bows, you hadn’t changed much either.  
After school one day, we were working together on a chemistry lab you had missed. 50 mls of hydrochloric acid here, 20 of citric acid there. You’d just spilled rubbing alcohol on my notebook, and the sleeves of your labcoat were damp with chemicals. I brushed most of the alcohol off the pages, savoring the sweet sterile smell. We worked in silence for the most part, except for the occasional, “Is is 20 mls, or 25?” To which I’d always answer, “20.”  
Your fingertips collided with my wrist as I reached for a test tube, I shivered and tried to conceal it. Before I knew it, your fingers were around my wrist, and your velvet eyes met my frozen ones. “Can I kiss you?” you muttered. “Be my guest.” Came my reply.  
You fingertips were gentle and hesitant, but there was an underlying tone of experience. After years of reluctant springs, you were finally here, in the flesh. It was you who ended it, and in that moment I could feel your uneasiness. I wanted to promise you an eternal winter of closeness, of togetherness, but I didn’t know how. All that was left was the dying heat where your skin met mine and the lingering scent of rubbing alcohol.  
We never spoke about that day in the chemistry lab, but every so often I caught you glance my way, and every time I’d smile back. We stayed friends the rest of that year and the next one too.  
I remember the day your father died. For the most part, you pretended to be brave but, it tore you apart. You were shocked and you were frail, but mostly you were angry. You were filled with poisonous wrath, the kind of anger that leads to mistakes and blurry nights at the bar.  
Tuesday, March 3rd, I found you in your basement, with a gun against your skull. I hadn’t heard from you all week, and I was worried. You’d been terrifyingly quiet, with eyes murky with tears and hands that never ceased quivering. Finally, I couldn’t handle it anymore. I rode my bicycle to your house at dangerously fast speeds, and when the door was locked I let myself in. “Thorin?” I called out, anxiety strangling me. Something pulled me towards the basement, so I headed down the stairs.  
There you were, sitting crosslegged on the ground, eyes closed, eyelashes woven together with tears, the cold muzzle of a handgun pressed into your jaw. “Thorin?” I whispered. You gazed at me with bloodshot, pleading eyes. “Hello, Bilbo.” You replied, your voice raw. I crossed the cold concrete and knelt in front of you, slipping the gun out of your white knuckles. I slid the gun away, the sound of metal against stone echoing throughout the empty basement.  
This scene nevered played out the way I expected. I tried to comfort you the way I’d imagined over and over, but alas I was trapped by my own mind yet again.  
I couldn’t hug you, because my heart was too cold, and I was afraid I might get you sick.  
Hell, I could barely kiss you that day in the lab. Whatever that was, it wasn’t me. I was possessed by some suave devil who could return your affections, but all the while my true demons were roaring and thrashing me into nothing.  
We just sat there in the dark. Thorin, you don’t know how much I wanted to hold you in my arms and brush away your tears. I wanted to be there. I hoped that I could whisper words of hope and light but my tongue was bound. Thorin, I was as scared as you were that night.  
What was I becoming? I was cold and uncaring, my veins were frozen over, my heart had turned to stone.  
Eventually you slipped your hand into the void between us, as if I were the one who was broken.  
Although my soul was screaming at me, I took your hand. I ran my pale, shaking, fingers over the warm expanse of your wrist. Heat sparked beneath your dark skin, and I marveled at how alive you were.  
It shocks me that even then you knew of my demons. I wanted nothing more than to comfort and care for you, but Thorin, my love, I simply couldn’t. Perhaps that’s why you offered me your palms and your wrists, because we both needed relief that night. You may have had a solid metal muzzle aimed at your skull, but baby, the knives were constantly on my wrists... but to most they weren’t there.  
And now as the Northern Lights shimmer above the roof of my hotel, I can’t help but think that maybe you were a bit more than the boy who played basketball.  
Thorin, if you’re reading this, I’m in Iceland. It’s quite nice here, I live in a small apartment surrounded by yellowed novels and pale girls who speak a language I don’t.  
With the money I saved up to go to Stanford I pay a nice old lady to go and fetch me groceries. Every Tuesday Helga comes over with two coffees and bags full of vegetables (I don’t like fruit that much), and we sit and talk about the novel I’m writing, although she doesn’t know much about books.  
One day Helga brought her ten year old grandson over, a skinny boy with a shock of white blond hair. Even though he didn’t speak a lick of English we watch The Fellowship of The Ring together.  
Every so often I’d lean over and exclaim, “Horfðu!” In a pathetic accent, I’m sure. I’m sure he didn’t get what I was telling him to look at, but he would nod and smile brilliantly.  
Sometimes when I was feeling confident in my Icelandic I would whisper, “Ég elska þetta atriði.” And everytime he would reply with, “Álfurinn er mikill!” It didn’t matter that I had just told him I loved a certain scene, and that he only replied with “The wizard is great!”, we were two nerds watching Lord of the Rings together... in Icelandic.  
Helga’s English is a lot better Thorin, and sometimes she comes and cooks me up some Kjötsúpa, and talks about her husband, Henrik. I’ve told her a lot about you, and she seems to really like you.  
Everytime I bring you up in conversation she simply shakes her head, laughs a bit, and sprinkles more pepper into my dinner. I think the pepper is a way of disciplining me, because the first night I ended up with so much pepper in my stew that I was left to harbor a hacking cough for a week.  
“Bilbo,” she says in her thick accent, “Please, stop talking about this boy, Thorin, here have more stew!” That’s the only way she can shut me up... food.  
The first few weeks I was in Iceland your Mom would call, and please don’t go berate her for doing so, I needed it. She wouldn’t even say hello, she’d skip straight to the “Bilbo, darling!” that I so loved. She’d talk and talk about your sisters and their beautiful children, and about your father, and your dog, Jesse.  
You may not realize it, Thorin, but I do not enjoy solitude. I told you once that I’d rather die than go to a party, and that I’d rather break my arm then go to a dance, and these things are still true, but I do not enjoy being lonely. Now, I feel terribly about telling you those things, though they be true, because I think, at the time you were trying to ask me out. I wouldn’t go, oh heavens no! But, I still feel guilty.  
Please, don’t worry about me as much as I worry about you. I am fine, and this time I mean it. I’m trying my best to keep eating and taking my meds, and I sleep normal eight hour cycles, although they’re filled with nightmares. But please, Thorin, don’t worry about me.  
How’s UCLA by the way? I heard about your scholarship, and I’m so insanely, insanely proud.  
Sincerely, Bilbo.  
P.S. Don’t hate me.

 

Thorin:  
I was not mad, not at all.  
I was relieved to finally have a small bit of him to hold onto, other than his yearbook photo from last year, and a black, velvet ribbon that I was meaning to return to him.  
Several times I sat down and tried to reply to her letters, but I found myself unable to. I found any excuse not to: he thinks I’m still mad, I’m a terrible writer, We’re out of stamps, the price of mailing something to Iceland is ridiculous… and so on and so forth.  
I decided to mail him a package.  
The package contained: his black ribbon, a few fortune cookie fortunes tucked inside an envelope, three faded Pokemon cards, a rusted ninja star, and my letter back to him.  
The package would sit under my bed for three months. It didn’t matter that I’d found a few stamps in my desk, or that everything was set and ready to mail. I couldn’t send it.  
Meanwhile, his letters never stopped coming. One after the other, each carefully outlining Iceland, describing the tales of Helga and her geeky grandson, the lakes, the frozen mountains, and most importantly the coffee shop down the street.

 

Bilbo:  
Thorin,  
I think I’m healing. Through painting, brunch with the neighbors and picnics in the woods, I’m getting better.  
I left because I believed I was corrupting you, ruining you, and I couldn’t have that. Turns out, I was just depressed.  
Now I’m writing this letter on the kitchen table of a girl named Matta. To be really specific I’m writing this on an ancient typewriter, on the table of a girl named Matta, on a houseboat in the middle of Lake Þingvallavatn, the largest natural lake in Iceland.  
It’s been a weird weekend.  
You’d probably like to know a thing or two about Matta. I don’t go parading around on houseboats with strangers, you should know that!  
I met Matta at a very important restaurant. I do not mean to imply that the restaurant was important because it was prestigious, I’m implying that the restaurant was important because I met my new best friend there.  
Christmas Day, the most important day of the year. I was sitting at a four man table with Helga and her grandson. Helga had insisted that we go out to dinner… and that I wear something nice.  
I hadn’t the faintest idea where we were going.  
I wore the nicest sweater I owned, which was a charcoal, silky thing studded with embroidered.  
I ordered a soup (healing food), Helga ordered some sort of lamb, and her grandson? Pasta. She ordered a bottle of champagne for her and I and sparkling cider for her grandson, Andre.  
Before I continue with my tale, I need to explain what “healing food” is. Thorin, if you hadn’t guessed I suffer from depression, and for me, recovering from depression meant eating good, healthy food.  
Healing food:  
-Spinach  
-Eggs  
-Soup  
-Tea  
-Basically any hot drink  
-Paninis  
-Bagels

Thorin, I left because I was too busy worrying about corrupting you that I couldn’t take care of myself. Now I know better.

Back to Matta.  
We were sitting in the center of the restaurant, surrounded by tables full of laughter. What happened next was exactly the opposite.  
The waiter had just emerged from the bustling kitchen, holding our food, and I wish I could describe to you how amazing it smelled.  
I was too busy inhaling what I could only imagine God’s Scentsy smelled like to notice a tall girl burst through the kitchen doors.  
“Stop!” She screamed.  
She was unbelievably tall, with shockingly white hair and even paler skin. (I would later learn of her Albinism.) A river of scarlet flowed from her nose. (I would later learn of her chronic nosebleeds.) This horrific river streamed down her chin and dripped onto her chef’s coat.  
The entire restaurant’s attention was now focused on the chef with the nosebleed.  
“Jondrette!” She screeched just as the waiter had set my soup down. Jondrette froze, eyes wide in fear. “I forbid you to serve their meal.” Something twisted in Jondrette’s face and he whirled around to face the young chef, gripping Andre’s bowl with such force I feared it would crack.  
“What did you say, girl?” Jondrette snarled in a heavy French accent.  
“You cannot serve that dish!” She paced towards the waiter with surprising grace. Suddenly, she clamped down on the bowl and the tug-of-war began. Jondrette pulled hard to left, but she combated with a solid tug to the right.  
“And why can’t I serve this dish?” Jondrette sneered.  
“There is blood in the sauce!” She wheezed.  
Red pasta sauce sloshed onto the floor, and Jondrette loosened his grip.  
(If you could just imagine this next part in slow-motion that’d be great.)  
Matta yanked the plate her way, not realizing the waiter had already let go. Red sauce dripped splashed into her hair and dripped down her face.  
That was when she punched him in the face.  
When the sauce first exploded in her face, she seemed surprised, but now all traces of surprise were replaced by seething anger.  
Slowly she wiped the sauce out of her eyes and bared her teeth. (Charlie, it was downright terrifying!) “Matta, please!” The waiter pleaded, but it was too late.  
Within a millisecond her knuckles had connected with his nose with a sickening crunch. Someone gasped, and Jondrette stared wide eyed at the blood pouring from his nose.  
“There. Now we’re twins.” Matta mocked.  
“Where are the vile beginners of this fray?!” The head chef exploded out the kitchen, holding his spatula like a sword.  
(You must know that he was a short man of 4’11”, with little hair and a ridiculous mustache. He was also found of Shakespeare.)  
It didn’t take him long to put two and two together. Matta’s clenched fists, Jondrette’s nose bent at a freakish angle, the shocked expressions of the customers, etc. etc.  
“You! My office!” He waved his spatula at Jondrette.  
Jondrette, hands cupped beneath his nose hurried through the kitchen doors.  
“And you!” He glared at Matta, “GET OUT OF MY RESTAURANT!” And in a flash, he was gone.  
Matta stared in horror at the kitchen doors. “Ah screw him.” She muttered defiantly, although her voice was breaking and tears welled up in her eyes.  
“Let’s see what we can do.” Helga whispered under her breath. She left our table and crossed the awkwardly silent restaurant to where the broken chef sat.  
"Come on darling."


	2. Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The eerie calm before the storm.

“Thank you, I’ll make sure to tell him. Goodbye.” Helga hung up the phone as soon as I entered the kitchen.  
“Helga? What’s this about?” I laugh and sit down at the bar.  
“Andre has a report he’s supposed to be working on. His partner was just calling to tell me.” She began washing the dishes, but I knew what she was doing--avoiding a conversation.  
“Didn’t sound like a little kid.” I add nonchalantly.  
“Fine!” She throws the cup into the sink, “Dwalin Oakenson, or something like that, he was calling about your boy.” Sighing melodramatically, she redirects her attention to scrubbing sauce out of a bowl.  
In response, my heart fails to keep beating. “Dwalin?” I ask, almost in a whisper, “Helga, what’s wrong?” Well, now my heart’s beating like I’ve snorted an entire gram of cocaine.  
“Thorin. He’s, he’s... I’m too old for this!” She throws her hands into the air, mutters something about vodka, and returns a few moments later with a bottle of Grey Goose and a package of Dixie cups.  
“Look, Thorin, he’s not doing too well. Now before you run to catch the next plane to L.A., sit down and listen to me.” She tears open the package and fills a Spiderman themed cup with vodka.  
“That’s a shot, right?” She shrugs and slides it across the counter, “Don’t tell Andre.”  
Without a second thought, I dump the liquid fire down my throat. My esophagus rejects the toxic drink and I gag. “I... hate vodka.”  
Helga pours me another drink, “Practice makes perfect.”  
“Now listen. Thorin, they cut him from the soccer team, and he hasn’t handled it too well.”  
I’m relieved. “That’s it? He’s moping over the soccer team? Yeah, it’s college ball, but he’ll get over it!” Laughter erupts from within me. “Ha ha! Ha! Ha Ha! I thought... I thought he’d caught meningitis!”  
Now the vodka doesn’t seem like a numbing agent, but a celebration!  
“Here’s to my ex-boyfriend not being dead!” I wipe tears from my eyes and raise my Iron Man cup.  
“Actually, it’s--”  
“A toast!” I shout over her, and she raises her cup dejectedly.  
“Helga,” I say after the fire in my throat dies, “Thorin gets like this all the time. He overreacts, it’s nothing.” This seems to calm her down a bit, or is it the alcohol?  
“Are you sure?”  
“I’m positive. D’you have anything other than vodka?”  
In hindsight, that day was important for two reasons. One, I learned where Helga stashed her whiskey. Two, I learned that I did not know Thorin Oakenson as well as I thought.  
He was not fine, he was the furthest thing from it.  
Sunday, June 14th, 2014.  
Helga grabbed her umbrella and trudged out into the downpour. For she had to fetch the mail.  
Our apartment complex shared a community mailbox just down the street, it wasn’t that much of a walk really. She returned bearing armfuls of bills, magazines, and coupons, there was also a letter addressed to me, with no return address.  
“This is yours.” She grumbled and thrust the cheap envelope into my hands. The stamps bore two poinsettias, Christmas stationary? In June?  
At my desk, I tore open the letter and read the first sentence. 

Bilbo,  
If you receive this letter it means that I have been brave... 

That handwriting, where do I know if from? I continue reading, and what I read disturbs me. The author describes with a strange humor the struggle of depression and what appears to be schizophrenia. I must say, it’s beautifully written, but who would send such a dreadful thing?  
The last sentence:  
With love,  
Tybalt Capulet  
Oh.  
I know who it is 

Flashback to Junior High. Mrs. Dobson’s 8th grade English class, January 10th, a Monday. “Class, we’ll be presenting the infamous romance Romeo and Juliet, as part of our Shakespeare unit.”  
No one wanted to play Romeo, so I stepped up. Auditions came and went, and I was casted with a pretty redhead named Tauriel.  
On several occasions the teachers jokingly asked me how I could be so mature. Every time I wanted to shout, “It’s because I’d rather be making out with Tybalt than Juliet!”  
But I kept quiet. Even though I couldn’t help but stare at the boy with blue eyes who was constantly in need of a haircut. 

Tears are strangling me. “H-Helga!” I scream.  
She runs into my room, spatula still in hand.  
“It’s Thorin.” She says nothing, she just takes my hand and pulls me into the kitchen. There, she presses a stack of money into my hand, hands me my shoes and says, “Go pack, he needs you.”  
Back in the confines of my bedroom, I throw clothing into my backpack at random. Wallet, ID, passport, cash, phone. Anything else I can buy once I’m there.  
On my way to the airport I make a desperate call to Dwalin. As luck would have it, he’s never seen the letter. I also learn that Thorin’s been distant for weeks. The response from his mom is the same. No one’s heard of him, they all assumed he was busy with finals.  
8:30 pm, a flight leaves to Detroit. I’ll have to fly from Detroit to L.A. My watch reads 6:03. Good, I’ve got time.  
I rush through security in record time. In under a half hour, I’ve got a boarding pass and I’m sitting at a sticky table in Starbucks, anxiously nibbling a muffin. Please be ok. Please…  
The flight is agony. Eight hours of time for my mind to wander.  
Miraculously, I sleep through the first four hours. I spend the next hour scraping up what little cell service I have to call everyone who was ever in contact with Thorin. To no avail.  
Hour six I sip Coke from the stewardess and flip through the air safety pamphlet. It was a suicide note. I’m convinced of it.  
When the pamphlet fails to entertain me, I watch the Karate Kid on a man’s laptop across the aisle and a row ahead of me. Hour seven slips by this way.  
Hour eight, the stewardess has returned. This time I order Pepsi to mix things up. And when the last drop of tepid soda has been drained, I embark to find the restroom.  
Twenty minutes later we’re in Detroit.  
Jet-lagged and starving, I make a plan. First, food. Second, buy book or any sort of entertainment. Good mercy I can’t handle another flight like that. Third, call Thorin.  
In-N-Out, Barnes and Noble, I’m wasting time.  
Eventually, I buy some historical-fiction novel and jam it into my backpack. Phone call time…  
I duck into the men’s room to find some silence.  
In the smudged mirror I track my emotions. I’m not going to cry. I won’t.  
“You won’t cry, Bilbo.” I keep my voice firm, trying to convince myself of a truth that I don't believe.  
His phone rings four times, then, “Hello?” Something audibly snaps from within me, “Thorin?” I half ask/half sob.  
“Bilbo?” He sounds confused.  
“I g-got your letter.” I stammer. In the mirror I watch myself cry, my tears drip on to the dusty faucet.  
“Oh. That.” He sounds disappointed. Why does he sound so disappointed?!  
My throat grows ever tighter. “Are you okay?”  
“I don’t know what that means anymore.”  
“Look I’m in Detroit, I’ll--”  
“Mr. Oakenson!” A strict female voice yells in the background.  
“I have to go.” The phone clicks dead.  
Although the emotions within me have whipped themselves into a hurricane, I run to catch my flight.  
A heavy sob bubbles up and shakes my bones. Tears, tears everywhere. Stupid tears, I don’t want to cry, I want to break bones!  
I don’t know what that means anymore. I don’t know what that means anymore. I don’t know what that means anymore. I don’t know what that means anymore.  
Cinch up the straps on my backpack, jog towards Gate E10. Sprint into the boarding line, board the bloody plane.  
“Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. First off, I’d like to thank you for flying with Delta Airlines..”  
I’m still mopping up the blasted tears when we lift off.  
“Sir, are you alright?” The girl across the aisle asks. I shake my head, unwilling to make conversation. “D’you wanna talk about it?” Negative. She puts her headphones back on and unpauses her movie.  
Another eight hours pass.  
Two cans of Coke, 254 pages, and 496 minutes later, I’m in L.A.  
Here it’s noon and I’m exhausted. I’d love nothing more than to collapse on the sidewalk and sleep, but I hail a cab and drive to UCLA. Dwalin gave me his address.  
He’s going to be furious.  
I don’t freaking care. 

4432 N. 1885 E.  
The cabbie screeches to a stop and I hand him a twenty, tell him to keep the change like I’m some sort of suave devil, and climb out of the car.  
Room a107, Room a107, Room a107.  
It’s just me, my backpack and the dingy green door in front of me. Room a107.  
Timidly, I stretch out my fist and stop myself. Knock on the door Bilbo, knock on the door. DO IT, YOU BLOODY IDIOT! Three small knocks, barely audible.  
A bit of scuffling, and it’s Thorin who answers the door, scowling and wearing mismatched socks. But a fraction of a second slips by and the scowl melts away, and, and? He hugs me.  
Did not expect that.  
“You came back to me.” He whispers.  
His warmth spills over into me and fresh wave of tears spills over. Soon enough I’m sobbing pathetically in his arms. He was just a faint memory a few days ago.  
“Hey, what’s this?” Those oceanic eyes cloud over with concern. He pushes the door closed and brushes a stray tear away with his thumb.  
I manage a frail smile. “Missed you.”  
“You can’t imagine how it was without you.” He slides a rubber band off his wrist and ties his dreads back.  
It’s such a simple action that I’ve witnessed so many times. Maybe I wasn’t in love with the condensed version of Thorin Oakenson. Name, height, weight, date of birth, the cold data used for paperwork. Maybe I was irrevocably in love with the way he hummed to himself as he sifted through the mail, or how he danced around the kitchen while he was fixing himself breakfast. I hadn’t fallen in love with just a boy, but everything he touched and everything he was.  
No wonder it hurt like hell.


End file.
